A flash of something fast and feathered had erupted from a concrete planter on one end of the terrace and taken to the sky.
The agent, all spit-and-polish elegance, had shrieked, then muttered a word that had no elegance to it at all.
“Sorry about that,” she’d said.
Matteo, head tilted back, hand shading his eyes as he tried to follow the thing’s flight to the park, had said, “What in hell was that?”
“Some kind of bird. A hawk. I’d heard it was trying to nest here. No worries, sir. I’ll speak with the building management and they’ll deal with driving it off.”
“Leave it.”
“But Mr. Bellini…”
“I’m buying this place,” Matteo had said, shocking himself as well as the agent, “and the hawk is not to be disturbed.”
A man about to plunk down eight figures for a bit of Manhattan real estate was not a man with whom to argue, and the agent had known that.
Six months later, Matteo and the hawk co-existed in respectful peace, each aware of the other, each aware of its boundaries.
The hawk was a redtail. A male.
Matteo had learned that by Googling it, though he’d learned more surprising details from a business acquaintance who, it turned out, had had a similar experience on the terrace of his own condo across the park, on Fifth Avenue.
“He’s still nesting there,” Sheikh Salim al Taj had said with a smile, “but we’re a little more cautious now. My wife, Grace, and I are pleased to have him with us, but we don’t let our little girl on the terrace alone. Well, we wouldn’t do that anyway, and we don’t believe the hawk would deliberately do her harm, but it can’t hurt to be cautious. You know how it is.”
Matteo tossed his duffel on a bench in his bedroom, toed off his shoes and stripped off his clothes.
Yes. He knew how it was.
Being cautious about things, about life in general, was what happened when a man took a woman into his life.
He became domesticated.
Either that, or he went on behaving as he pleased and then turned into a man like his father, one who was a liar and a cheat, married to a woman who damn well had to be a liar, too, pretending she didn’t know her marriage was a sham so she could get from it what she wanted, because it was not possible that a woman would not know the man she lived with was a fraud and—
And, what?
Matteo frowned. Where had all that come from? What did it have to do with anything?
Amazing, what a few days of domestic overkill could do to a man’s brain.
“Enough,” he said firmly, and he headed straight for the walk-in glass shower that would surely wash away the hours of travel as well as the memories of El Sueño and all it represented.
* * *
A long shower, a shave, a cup of espresso, and his mood showed improvement.
Matteo sat before the big fireplace in his living room, gazing into the fire he’d built on the hearth. He’d changed into faded jeans, a white dress shirt open at the collar topped by a navy cashmere sweater, and mocs.
The espresso was ground from coffee beans he bought from a little shop all the way downtown in the part of Little Italy that had not yet been swallowed by the ever-growing boundaries of Greenwich Village. The smell of the shop, the taste of the coffee, reminded him of Sicily and the tiny town where he’d grown up, where you could hear the sea pounding against the cliffs.
As kids, he and Luca had played wild, dangerous games on those cliffs.
Matteo smiled.
Those were good memories.
But there were other memories, too, ones that were not good, he thought, his smile fading.
Their mother’s anger at their father’s endless absences and the tension in the house when he was home. Her shouting. His silence.
Going away to boarding school had seemed a blessing—until he and Luca realized they’d only exchanged one hell for another. Maybe they’d been a little wild, a bit rough around the edges. Maybe they’d needed some discipline, but they surely hadn’t needed being beaten into submission…except neither of them had ever submitted to anything, which had led to their being sent to another boarding school, that one in Yorkshire.
“It can’t be any worse than this place,” Luca had said.
Matteo laughed. He could laugh, now, after so many years, all of it only a memory, but how wrong that hope had been.
Cristo, what was with him? All these long-buried memories scurrying through his head like mice through a woodpile. He was wallowing in self-indulgence, and that was definitely not something he normally did. He was not like Luca, who’d brooded over their childhood. Not him. He had moved on.
What he needed was to get out. See some people. Go someplace where the music was loud, the lights were bright, and the women were hot.
Nothing difficult about that in New York.
Matteo killed the fire, took his cup and saucer into the kitchen, went upstairs to the master suite to grab his wallet, his car keys, a leather bomber jacket…
His cellphone rang.
Damn.
It was probably Luca or one of his sisters, calling to make sure he was okay. He should have phoned them.
But the number that came up was unfamiliar. Some idiot trying to sell him something? He took the call with a harshly growled, “What?”
“Bellini? Did I get you at a bad time?”
Matteo frowned. “Who is this?”
“Tony. Tony Pastore.”
Tony Pastore. Matteo’s frown deepened. Pastore was a client. The Mall King, the media called him. His shopping malls dotted the northeast corridor from Maine to Georgia. What kind of legal advice could he possibly need on a Saturday night?
“Tony,” Matteo said with false good cheer. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a problem.”
“Yeah. There’s a lot of that going around lately.”
“It’s something I have to deal with ASAP.”
“Of course. Look, I’ll have my P.A. phone yours first thing Monday morning to set up an appoint—”
“We talked a few weeks ago. Remember? I called you, told you I was going to divorce my wife. You agreed to take it on.”
Hell. Matteo sat down on the edge of the bed. He remembered the conversation. Pastore had not phoned again. Nothing unusual in that. People talked about divorces, then changed their minds. If Matteo had given it any thought—which he had not—he’d have figured that was what had happened with Pastore, and that was fine with him because he didn’t practice family law. His specialty was corporate and estate law for small, wealthy, privately held corporations.
That kind of law was fascinating, complex and sometimes difficult, partly because some of his clients had such power and wealth that they thought of themselves as emperors.
Pastore surely did.
He was rich, as were the rest of Matteo’s clients, but he was also arrogant and flashy. The simple truth was, he didn’t like Pastore. Still, he’d taken him on as a client.
The thing was, they’d known each other forever, long before Pastore was the shopping- mall king, long before Matteo had made his first million.
The connection went all the way back to their Sicilian childhoods. They’d grown up in the same village.
Not that they’d ever been friends.
For one thing, Pastore was two years older. He’d run with a different crowd, a tough bunch whose fathers were reputed to be Mafiosi soldiers.
And he’d been a bully.
Matteo had been his target on a couple of occasions.
Still, they were adults now and as Pastore had reminded Matteo when he’d first contacted him a couple of years back, the past was history.
“Hey,” he’d said, “we’re different people now.”
Maybe.
But Matteo had the feeling Pastore hadn’t changed much. Despite the fortune he’d made, the bespoke suits and handmade shoes, the acquired polish, there was coarseness to him, an underlying hint of
violence that Matteo found a turn-off. He’d considered dropping him as a client several times, but there was this Sicilian thing called loyalty…
“Bellini? You there?”
“Yes.” Matteo nodded, as if Pastore could see him. “I’m here.”
“Good. Because I want to get moving on this. Immediately.”
Really? Matteo thought. At—he glanced at his watch—at seven o’clock on a Saturday night?
“I understand. As I said, I’ll have my P.A. call your—”
“Tonight.”
Matteo’s eyebrows rose.
“Look, Tony, I’m sure you’re upset, but—”
“My wife and I are going out for dinner in an hour.”
“And?”
“And, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to get a look at her.”
“Why would I need to get a look at her? You want my advice on how to proceed with a divorce, it doesn’t mean I have to meet her. In fact, it’s better that I don’t.”
“I want more than your advice. I want you to handle it. I told you that.”
“Either way, the procedure’s the same. You’ll each have a lawyer. The lawyers will deal with each other, not with each other’s clients. Unless… Do I have it wrong? Because if you and she are filing for an amicable divorce—”
Pastore barked out a laugh.
“Amicable? Not unless you think her going ape-shit when she finds out I’m dumping her is gonna be ‘amicable.’ Trust me, man. This is not gonna be a walk in the park.”
“Right.” Matteo massaged his temples. “Okay. When you come to my office on Monday, you’ll give me the details, we’ll arrange to have papers served to her and we’ll proceed from there.”
“No good.”
“That’s the way it’s done.”
“Yeah, but she’s nuts.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s how you’ve come to feel, but—”
“You don’t get it. She really is nuts. Crazy. Half a dozen doctors say so. She’s depressed. Anxious. She’s addicted to Christ knows how many prescription drugs.”
“That’s too bad, Tony. Must be rough.”
“Rough? It’s a fucking nightmare. She just gets worse and worse. See, she’s become, what do you call it, delusional. Scary as hell, I tell you, when she starts talking about things she’s seen or heard and you know damn well they’re happening inside her head, or when you ask her about something she’s done and she looks at you like you’re the one who’s nuts. That’s the reason we need a plan.”
We? Matteo rolled his eyes. What’s with the “we” stuff, kemosabe? he felt like saying, but if the woman was mentally ill, Pastore would have his hands full. How could he, in all good conscience, turn his back on the guy?
“Is she under psychiatric care?”
“What’d I just say, man? The doctor says she’s a whack job. Serving her with papers would be like pouring gasoline on a fire.”
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know. You’re the lawyer. You tell me.”
“Well, what about her family? Parents. Siblings. Have you discussed her mental condition with them?”
“She’s got nobody.”
Okay, so he couldn’t simply walk away from this, but if things were as bad as they sounded, Tony would need more specialized legal guidance than he could provide.
“Let me do some discreet checking around. It’s possible we may want to consult with another—”
“Fuck that!”
“Listen to me, Tony.”
“No, pal I’m the one who pays you. That means you listen to me!”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed. “Watch yourself,” he said coldly, “or this conversation is over.”
Silence. Then Pastore cleared his throat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. It’s just… I’m desperate here, paesano. Something has to be done, fast and quiet. I don’t know if you’ve heard… It’s possible some people are going to ask me to run for Congress.”
Aha. Things were becoming clearer. Pastore’s wife might prove an embarrassment.
“Maybe you’re overreacting,” Matteo said carefully. “New York voters are sophisticated. I think most of them would understand the situation. That she’s ill, I mean.”
“Nobody wants a congressman with a nut job for a wife,” Pastore said bluntly. “Besides, that’s not all of it. How’re voters gonna tell lies from the truth, especially when a good-looking babe tells the lies?”
“I’m not in politics, Tony. I’m not the person to ask for this kind of advice.”
“I got all the political advice I need, Bellini. What I need is legal advice. How to end the marriage.” Pastore paused. “Or, I don’t know, maybe how to get her committed.”
“That’s a big step.”
“A big legal step.”
“You have her power of attorney?”
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet? Either you have it or you don’t.”
“I mean I don’t have it. Yet.”
“I don’t think you understand. If her mental state is as bad as you say it is, then she’s in no condition to sign such a document now.”
“Yeah, but I’m her husband.” Another pause. “And you’re my lawyer.”
Matteo stood up. “What are you suggesting, Pastore?”
“Nothing, counselor. Nothing! I’m just, you know, thinking out loud. Trying to come up with some ideas because, like I said, this won’t be a walk in the park.” Pastore paused. “Which brings me back to why I called. You need to see exactly what we’re gonna be up against.”
“I told you, once she’s lawyered up—”
“Right. With some two thousand bucks an hour legal mouthpiece who’ll figure out, real fast, that the best way to drain me dry will be to get Ariel and her bullshit in front of every camera in the city. Oh, yeah. That’ll be perfect.”
“Ariel?”
“Her name, man. It’s Ariel.”
Ariel. The name was soft. Too soft for a woman married to Tony Pastore.
“How long have you been married to her?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Alimony payments, for one. How long, Tony?”
“A year.”
“Was she sick when you met her?”
“Not so it showed.”
“How’d you meet her?”
“What in hell does it matter?”
“Everything matters in a divorce.”
Pastore sighed. “I met her at a benefit. A charity thing. She’s one of those, what do you call it? One of those la-di-da bluebloods. You know the type.”
Yes, he did. Old families. Old money. Fancy schools. No occupation aside from raising money for favorite causes. Never mind the softness of her name. The softness of her life made it even more difficult to imagine her as Tony’s wife.
“And you fell in love?”
“Love?” Pastore snorted. “She’s a fine-looking piece of ass. Well, she used to be. Not so much anymore. Plus, you know, this thing about running for office… You need money. No problem. You need connections. I have those, too. What I didn’t have was, you know, a Jackie Kennedy on my arm.”
“And that’s what your wife is?”
“It’s what she was supposed to be. A babe who knows which fork to use at a fancy dinner, who can tell Michelangelo from Mickey Mouse. Trust me, man. You meet her, you’ll see what I thought I had going for me isn’t what I’m dealing with now.”
Matteo rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have dinner plans,” he said. A lie, but he wanted time to think.
“So forget dinner. We’ll just have a couple of drinks instead. How about at the Carlyle. You know the bar there?”
“Bemelmans,” Matteo said. He knew it. So did most of the power brokers in Manhattan.
“You got it. Walk in seven, seven thirty. You and me, we’ll both act surprised, long time no see, old pals, the whole shtick. I’ll ask you to sit down for a drink, half an hou
r later you’ll say goodbye, it was nice meeting you, Mrs. Pastore. Come Monday morning, you’ll tell me you absolutely get my problem. Yes?”
Matteo hesitated. Years ago, when he’d not only been younger but more foolish, he’d decided, after a night of heavy-duty partying, the best way to start the day was to drive to a small town in the Catskill Mountains where he’d spent ten minutes at the top of a hill that ended at the lip of a cliff, listening to an instructor explain hang-gliding before he’d tuned the guy out, and leaped into space.
It had been exhilarating, but most reckless things seemed that way when you were nineteen.
“Bellini? You still there?”
Matteo sighed. What the hell, maybe eyeballing Ariel Pastore would be a smart move. If she was as off-the-wall as her husband claimed, come Monday morning he’d fell guiltless telling Tony he’d have to find a shrink instead of a lawyer.
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“And?”
“And, I’ll be at the Carlyle at seven thirty.”
“Excellent! I knew you’d do the right thing.”
“I intend to, and you might not like it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, if I think your wife needs a psychiatrist more than you need a lawyer, I won’t take the case.”
“Jesus H. Christ! What are you, a Sicilian saint?”
“That’s the deal, Tony. Take it or leave it.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Seven thirty. The Carlyle.”
“Seven thirty,” Matteo said, and ended the call.
CHAPTER THREE
Matteo had always liked the Carlyle bar.
It was a handsome place, with comfortable booths, discreet lighting, good liquor and good food. It even had live jazz after nine thirty most evenings, but the Ludwig Bemelmans drawings of the fictional little girl named Madeline that adorned the room were what made the place special. He hadn’t been able to afford drinking there when he was in college or law school, but now he stopped by to meet friends whenever he could.
He’d always felt comfortable, walking in.
Not tonight.
The room was crowded. He took a quick look around, but he didn’t spot Tony.
Instinct told him coming here, getting drawn into what was probably going to be a mess, was a huge mistake. Wasn’t trust your instincts an old Sicilian saying? If it wasn’t, it should have been.
Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two Page 3